Sometime rulers of Afghanistan.

Yours is a land of raw beauty, but rugged.
Deserts and mountains where very little can

With one exception - the poppy.
It perseveres where nothing else can, and its
roots go deep.

In some places there are fields of poppies,
dancing in the breeze as far as the eye can see.

It is a beautiful flower, there to gladden the
hearts of those who see it.

But not your hearts, and not in your hands.

When you look at the poppy, you ignore the
beauty of its flower in favor of the sap of its
pod, a juice so potent that in your hands
becomes the seed of destruction for weak men
at all ends of the earth. 

Including your own.

The deadly opium and heroin which it produces
have brought a dreadful death to so many, and unspeakable anguish to so many more.

A destruction greater than any war.

For some, the poppy is a symbol of

For you a symbol of forgetfulness.

As with your faith, and your land, you have
taken a thing of beauty and seen only ugliness
in it, and have disseminated that ugliness far
and wide with a generosity not known to you in
other things.

Perhaps your Afterworld will be a vast field of
glorious poppies, but with a perfume so strong
and a seed so powerful, that with the first
breath it will make you soar so high that you
almost touch the wings of Heaven, then
plummet you through and past the fires of Hell,
into Oblivion.

Eternity is a circle.

It goes around, it comes around.

It is Alpha and Omega.

But you may never find it.

Let it be.

Home Chapter 4 Chapter 6

©2001 Y. Smidt, Las Vegas, NV, USA All Rights Reserved